Lies, Lies, Lies

So many reasons to feel this way in our current world condition. Pick a number, any number…

 Nature knows, and yet it continues to be beautiful

 

never forgetting its purpose

enjoying the gift of a new day

finding solace in togetherness..

Don’t despair,

breathe the air

before it is poisoned

 beyond repair.

Plant your feet

on solid ground,

hear the sound

of Nature

crying…

dying,

she weeps,

Where is the light?

the will to fight

for its survival

caught within a tangle

of discarded ideals.

Does anyone feel

her slowing heartbeat?

Behind the din 

of lusty sin

the voice of reason speaks,

but it is growing weak.

As darkness spreads

dis-ease and dread

we must remember 

our tender mercies.

Shout and deny

complacency,

for in its company

there is no honor.

No hope was ever born 

where freedom, scorned,

was abandoned.

The goal of power, futile,

the lesson always brutal

when truth falls like a hammer

On the glamour of its

promise.

‘Balance must be kept,’

and so the bow may bend,

only when the dark and light

remember how to blend

will this downward spiral end. 

Endings, beginnings-

no.

Existence is perpetual

whether humans come or go. 

Although the song below was written as a love ballad, I find it relevant here. 

After all, our life on this planet is a love affair of epic proportion. 

It’s also a very sweet film. Glen Hansard is so talented. 

This post presented as a contribution to Linda Hill’s #SoCS prompt Please visit her page to mee some amazing bloggers and follow her blog! 

Careless Wishers #TDWC

 

Today’s door was inspired by https://wheatsaltwineoil.wordpress.com/ and is, as Dan Antion would say, a ‘two-fer’.  How could I pass on his extension for the TDWC?  I am combining with Linda Hill’s #SoCS prompt which is left alone. 

The Careless Wisher

“Where are you going?”

her voice trailed.

“Anywhere but here!”

the small boy wailed.

“Be back before lunch,”

Mama called from inside

but he was seeking

somewhere to hide. 

No one ever listened,

they didn’t care.

He felt so ignored

by everyone there.

His brothers bossed him around,

 his fine treasures always found

by his whining little sister.

His small fists balled up,

tears streaming down his face,

“I want to be left alone,

I know that there’s a place!”

He turned towards the barn

but his father worked in there,

and Granny sat on the porch

in her favorite rocking chair.

The dogs were rolling in the dirt

in the middle of the drive,

and his favorite climbing tree

now housed a buzzing hive.

He stormed across the meadow 

and sat against a bale

of pungently golden hay,

unclenched his fists, exhaled.

“I want to be left alone,”

he mumbled 

to his shadow on the ground.

“In a place where I can hear myself 

and never will be found.”

He looked around.

It seemed there was no escape,

he shook his head.

That’s when he spotted

the paint and brushes by the shed.

Quickly he procured the lot,

then scoured the bale

for the perfect spot.

“Not in front-

 they’ll find me quick!”

He circled the bale

eight times to pick.

He dipped the old brush 

and sloshed on the paint,

then surveyed his work-

Well an artist I ain’t!”

Still it was a sufficient door-

of sorts.

He dropped the bucket 

and tossed the brush

then ran at the door 

with a sudden rush

of excitement.

There was no thud

as he expected

and the void of the bale

hungrily accepted

his wish.

He got to his feet,

enjoying the treat

of absolute silence.

When his eyes adjusted

to the minimal light

he was painfully aware

of his awkward new plight.

A simple path led into the dark

where he, alone, must face the stark

unknown.

Maybe the boys weren’t so bad

and his sister, his Mama, Granny and Dad

were now out of reach,

the boy started to screech.

“Help, I’m in here!”

He pounded his fists against the cold straw

that felt more like stone, his palms were raw.

He swiped at the tears

and began to pout,

“I’ll just have to paint

a new door out.”

The hammer of truth 

fell without sound.

“I’ve left the paint

and brush on the ground…”

(on the other side)

He looked at his hands,

and the trickles of blood,

he’d need more than that-

it would take a flood,

he wanted to shout!

He took a deep breath,

that careless wisher,

 stepped out on the path

and discarded his wrath.

“Maybe I’ll find

another way out.”

With hands in his pockets

he whimpered inside,

“I don’t want to be alone,”

he sniffed and cried

to the nothing that listened 

with out a sound

inside his careless wish, 

waiting to be found.

Cheryl Pennington 

Copyright 2023

My Soul is a Tomb #poetry #prose

 

My Soul is a Tomb

My soul is a tomb~

Mouldy bones of contention

litter the dusty floors

and congregate in the

murky shadows to avoid

the shards of filtered light

that steal through the gilded

windows,

their arches softly contrasting

the hard lines of mortar and stone.

The faint strain of waltzes

hangs in the stale air like

a fog creeping over the

stormy seas of destiny

My soul is a prison~

Bent cave dwellers make fire

to roast the flesh of dragons

slain by knights on white steeds

deep within the forests ruled 

by ancient faeries whose 

pixie slaves live among

the thorns in the rose gardens

where children in crisp linen

dresses and cropped breeches

play hide and seek with

the wolf cubs that venture 

into the daylight while the 

elders sleep off the night’s

hungry pillage with the red stain

of the family dog’s blood 

drying on their tongues and 

 dream of being eagles.

My soul is a highway~

paved with yellow brick

and lined with poppies in hues

of crimson, coral and magenta

to soothe the senses of weary travelers 

who journey from rough hewn cradle

to a bed of soft earth, staring at a

flowery epitaph etched in cold marble.

They amble and trot, skip, jump,

Race, fall, dance, trip and crawl

towards the promised land where,

hand in hand, they stand to

face the final judgment.

My soul is a legend

of hunters, servants, kings

and jokers~dancers, builders,

bakers, forsakers and breakers

of hearts, saints and sinners,

losers and winners creating each life

with fresh vigor, new hope and understanding

as they vow to make the next journey

richer than the last~without error

and leaving the terror of it behind

like confetti littering the memory with

 bright distraction-such attraction so

seductive they must return again

…and again.

For the prison can be escaped

and the highway paved with gold,

but the legend will be told in 

what’s writ upon the walls within 

the tomb.

Copyright Cheryl Pennington

2023

The Keeping Space #poetry #writingchallenge #Thursdaydoors

 

The Keeping Space

“Oh dear,” she exclaimed

surveying the room.

Her guest stumbled in,

“Should I loan you my broom?”

The Keeper just smiled,

“No, I do have my own.”

Her needs were so few,

after so long alone.

She pulled down some cups,

“Would you care for some tea?”

Her bins overflowed!

“Kind of you to visit me.”

The room dimly lit 

 showing all that she owned

was thick with dust and

her guest soon bemoaned,

“How can you live in

such disarray while,

 smiling, you ask

if I want tea today? 

Slowly she turned

to face her accuser.

“I may not be much

of a dust cloth user,”

She smiled sweetly

“When it comes to it

you didn’t submit

a direction

 for inspection

of my worth.”

She sighed..

I may not live in 

sparkling clean bliss,

 my work has thus been

far greater than this.

Beyond that door

you just breezed through

is where I toil

and what I must do 

 I am the Keeper

of the garden you see

Nature depends on

the ‘dull’ folks like me

to plant, prune and plow,

fetch water from the stream~

encouraging tendrils

and kisses from sunbeams!

It occurs to me now,”

she said as she bristled,

“I’m neglecting my work.”

The tea kettle whistled.

“I’m afraid there’s no time,

thank you for coming,”

She opened the door,

her fingers drumming.

Flustered and fuming

her guest swept away.

She grabbed up her broom

and cried, “Happy day!”

Then brushing the dirt

off of the stones

she smiled to herself

“Silly old bones.”

“For all of her wealth

she can’t see the worth

of song on the wind

and gems from the earth.”

The Keeper then knelt

‘neath an old sprawling tree.

“Thank you dear Mother

for this gift you gave me.

As long as I live

I’ll toil with my heart,

tending our garden

until life I part.

Cheryl K Pennington

Copyright words 2023

Image by Susan Rushton

To join Dan Antion’s fun Doors Writing Challenge visit the link and read the specifics. There aren’t a lot of rules so have fun! Thanks Dan for keeping us all connected. 

The Waltz/A Love Story

 …And she turned her face to the full moon, smiling…

“I’m ready, Grandmother,” she whispered.

and donned her finest silk, then dabbed a drop

of sweetness on her cheek~

She hummed a tune that none could hear

save the winged ones hiding near-

so softly at first just

 the strains of hello

and building just so

to a slow staccato

“Louder, my dear,” 

the old one prodded

(and as I watched I swear

 she nodded!)

Raise your song high 

and open your arms

for none can resist

your tempting charms

She quivered

then shivered,

and ruffled her gown,

 shamelessly smiling

with the moon gazing down

She giggled-

I swear it’s true!

glowing most brilliant

without any hue

 Golden treasure 

lay hidden within,

a delicate prize 

that few could win

Then I,

feeling suddenly out of place

said my farewells and brushed her face

She nodded and shyly

murmured, “Goodnight”

then tilted her chin

to the glowing light

Did her champion arrive

and waltz with her there

as the blinking eyes watched

the passion they shared?

At sunrise I longed

 to know how it went

but dashing outside 

I found her there, spent!

Unable to speak-

she seemed so weak

but for the glow 

left on her cheek.

Copyright words and images

Cheryl Pennington 2023

The epiphyllum oxypetalum most often blooms during a full moon. This night cereus plant is actually not related to the more common cactus varieties found in dessert areas of the US and Mexico but can be found naturally growing in and around other trees in shady tropical areas, like Central and South America.   When it graces you with blossoms there is magic. The blooms come on slowly, taking days to a week to fully develop. When the velvety white flesh starts peeking through its deep pink tendrils the time has arrived. That’s when I begin my night vigil, waiting for her to open her arms and put on her perfume to attract the giant moths or small bats that work their mystery of pollination. This bloom will open starting just after dark, slowly spreading its petals over the next few hours until she is fully blossomed.  But if you miss it that night you will have to wait for the next blooming for this beauty will be wilting with the sunrise. I suppose she has so much fun there is nothing left to do but sleep.  If you are ever lucky and the blossom is pollinated, a fruit similar to dragonfruit might develop. I have had a few of these beautiful plants through the years but as of yet no fruit.  The photos below are of a plant I’d had for many years.  It put on 32 blooms that Summer in Florida. 

Seems a perfect accompaniment to her performance 

‘And the Waltz Goes On’ 

Composed by Sir Anthony Hopkins

The Guest #poetry #photography

 

The Guest

I rose with marked anticipation

seeking nature’s orchestration

Someone new had joined the brass

a painted, fiery violet lass

How brilliant! 

Closer now, I need to see…

Oh yes! 

There you are, I knew you’d bee

To see your face

in this wondrous place

is a treasure!

How can one measure 

the worth of the earth’s

generosity~

her ferocity

astounds!

Would that I could follow you

and touch her face the way you do,

collecting gold for distribution~

Where, then, is the attribution

you deserve? 

I see you,

I hear the whirring of your wings,

an aria without horn or strings,

a breath in the cacophony~

Nature’s ancient symphony

Cheryl Pennington 

Copyright words and images 

2023

Birth of a Rainbow/A Lover’s Tryst #poetry #photography

 

“Listen, Old man,”

she cocked her head,

“Before I go out

and slip off to bed,”

she winked.

“Let’s leave a smile-

something with style!

to cheer the humans

for a little while.

Their world has gone sour,

their countenance dour

but if they look up 

at this dawning hour

and see the hues

of violets and blues

with red and green

and in between 

then

won’t they forget

the reason they fret

and cry

and sigh…

“ Thank you, my dear

for joining me here,

I’ll meet you tonight

as you lose your light

and we’ll repeat

this glorious feat

as I take the throne

and you are gone.

Good day, my love.”

Cheryl KP 

Copyright words and images 2023

The Accomplice #poetry #photography #birds

 

Would I

though stunningly bright

be able to light

a starless night?

I think not

My bit

of golden shimmer

is but a glimmer

in the shadow

of morning

And yet

I keep  returning

and so the turning

of the hourglass

sets the stage

I bow

and enter, stage left

ignoring the theft

of velvet night-

by day’s light 

Cheryl Pennington

Copyright 2023

When You’re Blessed With Lemons… #CFFC

This week’s prompt from Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge is part of her color photography challenge for the next few weeks. This week our color is Pink Lemonade. While I have not been a fan of the pink color that manufacturers have managed to create, other than pastel pink, I do so love the pink hues found in nature. I have many flower images but have tried to scale it down here for you, adding a few other ‘pink lemonade-ish’ photos.

Bees ‘n blooms,

how they groom

themselves for

such trysts,

their bliss

unrestrained!

Ten cents a drink?

I don’t think

I have enough to pay

for indulging this way! 

Ruthie,

my last connection

to childhood perfection-

a friend so constant

Hello you two!

One pink, one blue

Do you know much

I adore both of you?

Do leave me a sip!

Oh how my lips

long to savor

the fine flavor

of this elixir!

Little green 

I might not have seen

you there

if not for my desire

to capture the fire

in her heart…

Ahhh… dear magnolia

of the east

As golden faeries prance

under Old Moon’s

 blushing glance,

the goddess of night

will soon take flight

to wickedly delight

your dreams!

What can I say? It was his favorite holiday film…

my rogue Ralphie. 😂

In the botanical garden, nature comes to light! 

A bit of me

creatively…

For in death shall 

she smile one last time

what rhyme

to convey such 

beauty? 

The sun does not set.

She pirouettes

into the arms of dusk!

A moment of serendipity

King of Pops for an adult frozen delight! 

Sweet whisper of life~

the Rayne that brings sunshine! 

Okay, gratuitous preening anole shot.

 But my phone is a nice shade of pink…

Don’t you think? 

Butterflies love blooms

Monkeys love bananas!

Before this plant has expired, 

many will be satisfied. 

Blood orange margarita that parades 

as frozen tart Pink Lemonade! 

Apparently 

it needed a boost! 

Do not weep 

when I am done

for I will sleep

when doth the sun

no longer kiss my cheek.

We shall not speak

of such sorrow.

Look! Here comes

tomorrow.

May we borrow it from you,

Father Time? 

Happiness is a butterfly….

And how about my favorite song about Pink?